With these sentiments it is needless to remark that Sir Ascot was none of your sighing, despairing, fire-eating adorers, whose violence frightens a woman into a not unwilling consent; but a cautious, quiet lover, on whom perhaps a civil refusal might be the greatest favour she could confer. Nevertheless, he liked Blanche, too, in his own way. Well, the band played, and the luncheon was discussed, and the room was cleared for an impromptu dance (meditated for a fortnight); and some waltzed, and some flirted, and some walked about and peeped into the troop-stables and inspected the riding-school, and Blanche found herself, rather to her surprise, walking _tête-à-tête_ with Sir Ascot from the latter dusty emporium, lingering a little behind the rest of the party, and separated altogether from the General and Mary Delaval. Sir Ascot having skilfully detached Lacquers, by informing him that he had made a fatal impression on Miss Spanker, who was searching everywhere for the credulous hussar; and having thus possessed himself of Blanche’s ear, now stopped dead-short, looked the astonished girl full in the face, and without moving a muscle of his own countenance, carelessly remarked, “Miss Kettering, would you like to marry me?” Blanche thought he was joking, and although it struck her as an ill-timed piece of pleasantry, she strove to keep up the jest, and replied, with a laugh and low curtsey, “Sir Ascot Uppercrust, you do me too much honour.” “No, but will you, Miss Kettering?” said Sir Ascot, getting quite warm (for him). “Plain fellow--do what I can--make you happy--and all that.” [Illustration: “‘Sir Ascot Uppercrust, you do me too much honour.’” _Page 182_] Poor Blanche blushed crimson up to her eyes. Good heavens! then the man was in earnest after all! What had she done--she, the pet of “Cousin Charlie,” and the _protégée_ of Frank Hardingstone--that such a creature as this should presume to ask her such a question? She hesitated--felt very angry--half inclined to laugh and half inclined to cry; and Sir Ascot went on, “Silence gives consent, Miss Kettering--’pon my soul, I’m immensely flattered--can’t express what I feel--no poet, and that sort of thing--but I really am--eh!--very--eh!” It was getting too absurd; if she did not take some decisive step, here was a dandy quite prepared to affiance her against her will, and what to say or how to say it, poor little Blanche, who was totally unused to this sort of thing, and tormented, moreover, with an invincible desire to laugh, knew no more than the man in the moon.